


A captured flame

by Umi_no_arawashi



Series: Captive flame [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Future Melkor/Sauron, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Manwë makes bad decisions, Memory Loss, Past Melkor/Sauron, Past Torture, Post-Lord of the Rings, Sad Ending, Some might consider it a happy ending, Torture, Valinor, Well I guess it depends on your point of view...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24555268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Umi_no_arawashi/pseuds/Umi_no_arawashi
Summary: Mairon, once know as Sauron, wakes, saved by the grace of Nienna, with no memory of his past. The maia Olórin, whom the elves once called Mithrandir, is entrusted with his care.But even in Valinor, some believe there can be no atonement without suffering.
Relationships: Gandalf | Mithrandir/Sauron | Mairon, Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon, Sauron | Mairon/Other(s)
Series: Captive flame [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951738
Comments: 48
Kudos: 105





	1. Awakening

He woke, and everything was shining waves of red and gold, bright with light.

When he moved, the waves moved with him, and he saw there was a world beyond them, that they were just coloured threads, part of him, and then he knew the word. It was hair, his hair, long and thick, falling to his knees in waves of red, and he was Mairon.

It was strange that he knew this, because he knew little else. He thought that perhaps he had been elsewhere and had come back after a long journey, but he had no memory of it, no memory of anything. The only thing he knew was his name.

“You are awake,” said a voice, and Mairon scrambled to sit up. His body felt weak and frail, and he could not say whether it had always been thus. Perhaps it had.

The voice belonged to a being with kind, twinkling eyes, deep with wisdom. His face was unlined but wise, his long hair grey, and Mairon looked at him in wonder. He had never seen another living thing before. Or at least he did not think he had.

“Who are you?” asked Mairon, the sound of his voice in his ears new and strange. He had not known he could speak before he tried.

“Olórin is my name in this place, though I have borne many in my time. Do you know your own name?”

“I am Mairon,” said Mairon with certainty. This, he knew.

“Are you? A good name,” the kindly being smiled. I shall call you this, then.”

Mairon gathered his hair around him. He was naked, when this other being wore robes of white. 

“Are you cold, Mairon?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully. He looked around him. He was in a small space with white walls and a white floor. There was an opening in one of the walls, large enough to walk through, and outside, a blue light, so bright it hurt his eyes. “What is this place?” 

“You are in the realm of the Lady Nienna. This is one of the many towers of her Halls.”

“Who is this Lady? Why am I here?”

“You are full of questions, little one,” said Olórin, but he did not seem unsettled by Mairon’s questions.

“It is because I have no answers of my own, I think,” said Mairon.

“Then I shall attempt to give you some. The Lady Nienna is the lady of mercy, and this is what she has given you. Here you will live, grow anew, and learn, and perhaps one day you will show yourself worthy of this mercy.”

“Will I see this Lady?”

“No, little one, you will see no one apart from me. Not for a long time. You are to stay here, in this tower. This door” - Olórin gestured to a dark square in the white wall, and Mairon knew then it was a door, and could open and close - “is forbidden to you. You must not leave.”

Mairon considered this. The being’s tone was kind, but without appeal. There was no reason to ask more. And yet his mind would not quiet. 

“Why?” he asked.

“That I cannot tell you, Mairon. Perhaps you will learn. For now you must rest, for you have travelled far to be here.”

Mairon looked around the bare room. When Olórin had spoken of rest, Mairon had known suddenly that there was a place people used to rest. “Is there a bed, that I may rest?” 

The being shook his head, looking a little sad. “No, little one. It has been decided that nothing must be given to you, for fear of what you will do with it.” He sighed. “I think, however, that tomorrow I shall bring you clothes. I do not see the good in leaving you naked to shiver in your tower.”

“If this Lady wills it thus, perhaps it would be best?” said Mairon. He did not want the kindly being to be at fault for his sake.

“The Lady would have given you a bed, little one. But the other Lords and Ladies deemed it imprudent.” Olórin smiled an impish smile. “I, for my part, do not think there’s any harm in keeping warm. Surely this is not what the great Lords and Ladies feared.”

“But why…”

The being raised a hand. “No more questions, little one. I must leave. Tomorrow I shall be back, and I am sure you will have thought of many more things by then. I must get away and rest, or I shall never have the strength to face you and your questions again.” 

Mairon shut his mouth with an audible sound. He had asked too much. He had known, somehow, that asking too many questions was not good, and yet he had not been able to help himself. Something in him wanted to know, something yearned to understand everything around him, to know _why_ things were and not only what they were. And he knew this was as much a part of him as the name Mairon and the red of his hair.

“I am sorry I asked questions,” he said.

Olórin looked at him with a benevolent smile. “You should never feel sorry for asking questions. But I cannot answer all of them. You must be patient.”

“When will you be back? I know not when tomorrow is.”

“See outside, how the Sun is setting?” said Olórin gesturing at the blue outside the opening. Mairon looked, and there was a brightness in that blue, which was the Sun, and he knew the blue was the sky, now. “The night will soon fall, and you must rest. I will come when the Sun has risen again, when She is bright in the sky.”

“Can you not stay with me a little while longer?”

“I am sorry, little one. There are great Lords and Ladies who await news of your waking, and I must go and tell them about it.”

“Why should great Lords and Ladies care about my waking?” said Mairon with a frown. He did not know of these Lords and Ladies, but they sounded powerful and important. Mairon didn’t feel powerful or important, sitting on the floor of this tower, naked and cold.

“No more questions tonight. Tomorrow we will speak. I wish you a good night, Mairon.”

“I will await your return,” said Mairon, and the kind being picked up a staff that had been on the floor and opened the door, and left.

For a time, Mairon stayed seated, thinking on what Olórin had said. There was much that was puzzling and strange to his mind, yet the being had seemed gentle and kind, and Mairon thought he could be trusted. He said he would return, and Mairon was glad of it, but time seemed long to him, and the Sun did not move fast in the sky.

He thought he would like to see how far She had to go yet before setting, and so he willed himself to move. He tried to stand on his legs, like Olórin had done, but it was hard to find his balance and many times he fell, until he found the trick of using the stone wall as support to raise himself up.

Once he was on his feet, he tried walking, as Olórin had done. The first step was hard, as his mind kept telling him he was too high and would fall forward, but finally he brought his trembling foot down before him and it felt right and strong enough to put his weight on. He kept on, each step easier, lighter than the rest, until he felt so giddy with the joy of it that he let go of the wall, and promptly fell again.

His knee hit the floor hard, and he winced, because it hurt, and it was the first hurt he’d known. But he gritted his teeth and tried again, careful not to step on his own hair, and this time he managed to keep his balance, even though he kept his hands outstretched to protect him if he should fall again.

Slowly, but upright, he made his way to the bright opening in the wall, and it led to a platform that extended outside the tower and had a stone border around it. At first Mairon was afraid to step out under the sky. It looked too empty to his eyes. In the room, there’d been a ceiling, though it was high.

But from where he was, he could not see much more than the sky, and he wanted more than anything to see more, to learn more, so he pushed himself to walk out on this platform. And he was glad he did, because outside the air moved and made his hair dance around him and caressed his skin, and this was called wind, and it was good, and he laughed with joy, startling himself. He had not known about laughter.

But then he reached the border of the platform, and fell silent with awe. The tower he was in was high above the ground, and it faced a wide immensity that seemed to move, dark green with white foam on top of waves, and this was the sea. He looked straight down to see what the tower stood on, and the sight made his head swim, for he could see very little ground, and that, far away. The tower stood at the edge of a cliff, it seemed, and below it all was sharp rocks, washed by the waves of the sea. 

He stood and watched for a long time, fascinated by the changing colours of the sea, by the sky and the clouds that rolled silently. There was no sound he could hear, apart from the distant roar of waves and the whisper of the wind. And then he noticed the Sun had disappeared behind his tower, somewhere he could not see, and the sky was turning dark, and even though he’d loved the blue of the sky, this darkness that fell seemed to him lovelier still. Small shining specks of light appeared here and there, that were stars, and he loved their pale glow. And then an even more wonderful thing happened: a round disk, fair and white, rose over the sea, and it was the Moon, and Mairon wept, because it was at the same time fearful and beautiful, and he wondered at the tears that fell from his eyes and gathered them on his fingers, and tasted them with the tip of his tongue in curiosity.

All night, he stood and watched, rapt, as the Moon slowly crossed the sky. And then a great weariness fell upon him, and he curled himself onto the cold stone, and knew no more.


	2. The white tower by the sea

A hand prodded him gently on the shoulder, and he woke with a start.

“Olórin!” he cried. “You are back!”

“Yes, little one, said Olórin. You should not sleep outside. It is too cold.

“I do not mind the cold,” said Mairon rapidly. “I saw many things. The night is wonderful. There are stars, did you know that? And the Moon. It was so fair I cried. I was so glad of it.”

Olórin looked at him, and his eyes were warm. “I know about the stars. And the Moon is wonderfully fair, you are right.”

“At first I thought the night was too long, that you were never going to come back. But more and more stars came out, until there was a great river of stars in the sky, and I was glad the night was long. I could have watched that forever.” He glanced upwards. The sky was light now, rays of light piercing at the horizon, and the clouds were tinged with pink. “It is all gone, now,” he said with regret, though the pink light was pretty too.

“It will come back. The Sun is rising again, then She will set, and then you will see the stars. Do not look so sad. I promise you will see them again.”

“You are kind, Olórin,” smiled Mairon. Then carefully he pulled himself to his feet again. “Look!” he said proudly, holding out his arms to balance himself, because he was unsteady. “I can stand like you, now. And walk, though sometimes I fall, still.”’

Olórin huffed in amusement, but there was no mockery in his laugh. “That is indeed very well done. Will you walk back inside with me? I have brought some clothes for you to wear.”

“Really?” said Mairon, and in his excitement he moved too fast and lost his balance, and thought he was going to fall again, but Olórin held out his arm and caught him and Mairon found his face buried into Olórin’s sweet-smelling robes, and a wonderful warm feeling came upon him.

He looked up and Olórin was smiling.

“Are you alright, Mairon?” he asked.

“Yes. This walking is hard, I find.”

“It will become easier. You are doing very well indeed. Will you take my arm, for now?”

“Gladly,” said Mairon, and he leant on Olórin’s arm, happy to be so close to him, and walked back inside.

“The clothes I have for you are simple, but they should keep you warm,” said Olórin.

The clothes were on the stone floor, and Mairon knelt carefully to inspect them. There was a high-collared tunic and a pair of breeches, both of a soft grey colour, and they were pleasant to the touch and warm. There was a small line of decoration at the colour, silver lines that twisted and danced.

“Look how pretty! What are those things?”

“Leaves, little ones. Those clothes were made in the hall of Aulë, and were given to me for you.”

“They are beautiful, and I like that they are grey, for that will remind me of you when you are not there.”

Olórin looked surprised, but not displeased. “If you say so. Do you want help putting them on?”

“Yes,” said Mairon, for though they were simple and had few fastenings, he felt unsure how to start.

Olórin helped him stand, and showed him how to fit the clothes around him, guiding his hands and feet, supporting him so he should not fall. The cloth felt warm against his skin, even if it was a little constricting. He looked at his arms and legs, now clad in grey, and giggled at the strange sight.

“Do you like it, little one?”

“Yes, thank you, they are wonderful.” He brushed his hair away from his face. It kept falling there, unlike Olórin’s long grey hair that was held somehow and fell behind his shoulders. “How do you keep your hair away from your eyes?” he asked, impatiently pushing back a curl that did not want to stay in place.

Olórin huffed in amusement. “Come, sit on the floor. I shall braid your hair, if you wish.”

Mairon sat down eagerly, and Olórin settled behind him and started gathering Mairon’s hair.

“It is long, isn’t it? Yours isn’t that long!”

“Yes. The _fana_ you chose is different from what I knew before. You look much younger like this.” Olórin spoke as he took strands of hair in his hands and plaited them. “Your face is the same, except now you look like a youth, and lither. I don’t know what is the meaning of all this hair, though,” he huffed. “I will be here all day, at this rate.”

“That, I do not mind,” grinned Mairon. “I do not know that I had chosen this? How did I choose?”

“This is part of the things I can’t tell you.”

“Oh, that reminds me of what you said yesterday. Did you see the Lords and Ladies you spoke of? What did they say? Were they fearful and beautiful to behold?”

Olórin’s hands stopped for a second. “Why do you say that, little one?”

“I know not. But it seems to me a Lord would be like that. Like the face of the moon, that made me weep to look at.”

Olórin resumed his braiding. “They are very fair beings, all of them, beautiful in shape and in spirit. I cannot tell you much of what we spoke. I can say that I am glad they entrusted you to me. For now, they want you to wait here, to see what becomes of you.”

“That is alright. I can watch the sea and the clouds during the day and the stars at night, and you will come to see me. Now that I have clothes, I won’t even be cold. It will be good.”

“If this is how you feel, then this will go better than I thought it would. There,” he said, giving Mairon’s head a little pat. “Is that better?”

Mairon felt gingerly for his hair. Olórin had braided back some of the curls that had bothered him, and now his hair fell down his back smoothly. “Thank you!” he cried. “It is much better.”

“Hmpf,” scoffed Olórin. “You have too much hair, little one.” But his eyes were not stern. “I will stay with you a little while longer. If you have questions I can answer, I will do so.”

Mairon cast his mind for something to ask. There were many things he wanted to know about himself, but he had noticed Olórin did not answer those. “Tell me about the Moon and the stars, then. And the Sun.”

“That I can do. Come, let us sit outside, for the Sun is shining and it is pleasant under the sky.”

They sat outside, leaning against the wall of the tower, and Olórin spoke, telling him of two ancient shining trees, Telperion and Laurelin, and how they used to light the world, and how upon their death Telperion’s last flower and Laurelin’s last fruit became the Moon and the Sun.

Mairon listened intently. “It is sad that these trees should have died. How did they die?”

“I…” Olórin’s voice faltered. “I cannot speak of that. It is a dark story.”

“Ah,” sighed Mairon. “There is much you cannot speak of, it seems.”

“It is true. But I can tell you about Lady Varda, whom the elves call Elbereth or star-Queen, and how she placed the stars in the sky. I know this, because I was with her then.”

“You were?” cried out Mairon. “How wonderful it must have been.”

“Yes. It was wonderful indeed.” Olórin took out a long pipe from a fold in his robes, and Mairon watched in fascination as he stuffed sweet smelling herbs in its bowl. And then he gestured above the bowl, and a small light appeared above his index finger, dancing in the wind.

“Oh!” breathed Mairon, taking Olórin’s hand in his. “What is this light? It is so beautiful.”

“Fire, to light my pipe. Let my hand go, little one, or I’ll never get it lit.”

“Please, Olórin, may I have some of this fire too? It looks like a wonderful thing!”

“No. That, you may not.” Olórin shook his head, and lit his pipe, puffing upon it to create great clouds of sweet-smelling smoke. “Do you want to hear how the stars were placed in the sky or not, Mairon?”

“I do.” Mairon settled against Olórin’s chest, and watched the clouds, listening to Olórin’s story.

Many days passed. The weather turned warm and sunny, and then storms started coming in, and there was a chill in the air that hadn’t been there before. 

Mairon did not keep a count of the days, since they were all much the same. The sea and the sky were ever-changing, the Moon waxed and waned, but each day the Sun would rise and Olórin would come and talk to him, and those times made him glad.

He also had new interests. He had seen birds, and he watched them, trying to understand what they did, but they stayed away from the tower which made looking at them difficult. And, most of all, he had his flower.

He first noticed it not long before he woke, a dozen days later, perhaps. Against the border of his balcony (for that was what it was called), in one corner there was a small amount of sand and soil, blown in by the wind long ago, perhaps. It was less than a handful, and yet, in the middle of it, he saw a small white thing that grew and became green, and sprouted two tiny leaves.

When he showed it to Olórin, he explained it must have been a seed that landed there and was growing, and that it might, perhaps, grow to be a plant, if it had enough water and sun. Mairon very much wanted to see it grow, so he did his best to take care of it. He found a small piece of stone that had fallen from the tower, and, rubbing in on the stone of the floor, managed after days upon days to create a small hollow where the water of the rain might be kept. It was small, barely bigger than the palm of his hand, but he was glad of it when there were many days of sun without rain and the plant started to wilt.

Then, he would dip his fingers into his small water-well, and drip little drops of water on the plant until it looked green and happy again. And he was well repaid for his efforts, for the plant grew many more leaves, and became taller, and then finally grew a small yellow flower that Olórin called a buttercup, that small folks named hobbits also called goldilocks.That was his great pleasure, other than the sea and the sky, to look upon his little flower.

But when the days grew colder, the flower wilted, and he wept, forlorn, because he had loved it dearly.

But worse was to pass, because Olórin told him he would have to go for a while to visit some of his friends who were newly come into these lands. Mairon wept again, for he did not want to be left alone, and Olórin looked troubled and thought, and one day he came to Mairon with a proposal.

“Little one, you must not weep anymore,” he said.

“How can I not, when you will leave and I do not know when you will come back?”

“Perhaps I have thought of something to ease your sadness. I have a friend, an elf, whom I trust highly. He had agreed to come see you in my stead. Would you like that?”

Mairon did not know what an elf was, and in truth he would rather have Olórin with him. But he did not wish to trouble Olórin any further or cause him any worry, and so he said he would like to meet his elf, though his heart was heavy.


	3. The strange elf

The following day, it was not Olórin who came, but the elf. But the first day, Mairon felt scared of him, for he was not Olórin and he had never met anyone else, and he hid behind the wall and refused to speak with him. The being that Olórin had called elf stayed back, on the other side of the wall, and talked to him in a soft, fair voice. With a kind voice, he said he meant Mairon no harm, and would come back the following day to see if Mairon would speak to him them.

The following day, Mairon had steeled his heart and was ready when the same being arrived, and this time after a while, he came out from behind the wall and stood before the elf, eyes cast down in fear still, and said, simply, “I am Mairon.”

“Well met, Mairon,” said the elf. “I have heard much about you from Mithrandir.”

“Who is this Mithrandir?” asked Mairon, looking up, curious. The elf was similar in form to Olórin though his ears were shaped differently. His hair was long and straight and the colour of sunlight, and he was fair and looked kind. 

“He whom you call Olórin. I knew him as Mithrandir in Middle-Earth, and call him by that name still.”

“And what is your name?”

The elf shook his head. “Mithrandir asked me not to reveal it to you, for fear you would remember it from past ages. But I am a friend.”

Mairon smiled. “I am glad to have a friend,” he said, and grabbed the elf’s hand. A being so fair could not be dangerous. “Come see my plant. It does not have a flower anymore, but I love it still.” 

The elf followed him, and looked at the plant and smiled and called it very fair, though he seemed to look more at Mairon than the plant when he said that. Still, Mairon was glad the elf had liked his plant, and when he left, he said he was glad to have met him, and meant it with all his heart.

The next day, the two of them sat outside, for even though the days were shorter and cooler now, some days were still warm. The elf had brought him a few wildflowers tied with a small thread, all different colours, and they were the most wonderful thing Mairon had ever seen, even though the elf said they would quickly wilt, for flowers could not live long away from the ground.

Yet they were beautiful and smelled sweet, and Mairon laughed with joy and thanked the elf warmly. And the elf looked at him strangely, as though suddenly struck by something.

“What is it?” asked Mairon. “Is something wrong, elf-friend?”

“Nothing is wrong,” said the elf, shaking his head. “I am merely surprised. You are very fair. I had heard that the enemy has been fair, once, but I did not expect to be moved by your beauty.”

“Am I the enemy, then?” said Mairon, tilting his head to the side. “I did not know this.”

“I know not what you are now. I only know that you are fair, fairer than any elf I’ve ever seen. Fairer than those of your own kind, even.”

“So I am not an elf?” This had been troubling Mairon. Olórin had been very evasive on that point. He knew Olórin was something and this elf was something else, but he didn’t know what he himself was. But now he knew this: he was no elf.

“No. No elf has hair like you, like fire woven into silk, or eyes like yours.” 

“What are my eyes like?” asked Mairon. He had never had any way to see.

“They are like the most precious gold.”

“What is gold?” 

The elf laughed, as though Mairon’s question was funny to him. “I did not think you of all beings could forget what gold is. Gold, Mairon, is a precious metal, the colour of the Sun’s rays.”

“The colour of your hair, then.”

The elf smiled. “Yes, in a way. Or the colour of your flower, if it truly was a buttercup as you say.”

“Strange. Olórin’s eyes are blue, and so are yours. I thought perhaps all eyes were the colour of the sky.”

“Not yours. But they are wondrously fair nonetheless.” The elf reached out and let a strand of Mairon’s hair flow over his hand. “I could write a song of your beauty, little Mairon.”

“I would gladly hear a song,” said Mairon with enthusiasm. “I have not heard a song in…” He stopped. “Perhaps I have never heard a song. I think there were no songs where I was. But now that I am here, my heart swells with song, I think, although in truth I know not how to sing.”

“I shall sing you a song of fire,” said the elf. “Of its beauty and danger. Will you hear it, beautiful?”

“Gladly. I have seen fire at Olórin’s fingertips, and I love it dearly.”

The elf’s song spoke of flames, rich and red. Of sparks, like short-lived stars, lighting the dark. Of the warmth of a fire, how it soothed the heart, consoled the spirit. Of the wickedness of fire, its treachery, how it could burn, how it could run uncontrolled and free and destroy the most beautiful, precious things.

It was a beautiful song, and frightening. Both love and hate were in the song, love of the beauty of fire, hate of its ruthlessness, and the song swooped and dove between the two thoughts like a bird in the wind. The melody was lovely to Mairon’s ears, and he joined in hesitantly, weaving his voice within the elf’s song, softly at first, then the joy of it struck him and he sang as loud as the elf, and there was no longer one bird in flight but two.

The song ended, and the elf looked at him as though in wonder. “Your voice is sweet,” he said. “Clear as the purest water, and just as sweet. I had no knowledge of this.”

“Why would you have known of my voice?”

“I know not. I thought I knew you, but now I feel like I have lost all bearings, fair one.”

The elf leant forward, and pressed his lips to Mairon’s, his breath sweet and warm. Mairon pulled back, like a startled deer scurrying into the brush.

“Should I not have kissed you?” asked the elf.

“Was this a kiss, then?” asked Mairon wonderingly. He had no memory of kisses. But such a thing must have existed, if there was a word for it in his mind.

“Perhaps I did wrong, fair Mairon. But I was struck by your beauty and your voice, and it seemed right to me. I am sorry if it troubled you.”

Mairon shook his head. “No. I did not mind it at all. Will you do it again?”

The elf smiled. “Gladly, if you will let me.”

* * *

The days passed quickly in the company of his elf-friend, but Olórin was always in Mairon’s mind, and when one morning it was him who came and not the elf, Mairon was overjoyed and ran into his arms and, not thinking, pressed a kiss to his lips.

“What was that, little one?” asked Olórin, looking down on him with a surprised look.

“A kiss. My elf friend showed me.” He bit his lip, afraid that perhaps he had done wrong to kiss Olórin.

Olórin smiled with a thoughtful look. “Did he now? There is no harm in that. I know him well, and he would never harm you.”

“Should I not have kissed you, Olórin? I am sorry if it grieves you.”

“No, it does not, little one. But you should be careful of your kisses. A kiss can be a dangerous thing. Some might think you want to give more than you are ready for.”

“In truth, I would give more to you, if I knew how. I have nothing to give you, but you are dear to me. I would give you everything.”

“That is not something you should say, Mairon,” said Olórin with a gentle smile. “It would be easy to be tempted.”

“I do not care. I love you dearly, Olórin.” Another thought struck him. “Oh! I have also learned another thing from my elf-friend. A song, that I liked very much. It was sad yet beautiful. Will you hear it?”

“Gladly,” said Olórin, fixing his pipe. “I did not know you liked to sing.”

“Neither did I, in truth,” said Mairon, and laughed. Then he quieted his spirit and reached into his memory for the song, and his voice was clear and warm as he sang of fire, though in the middle of it he left behind the line of song the elf had taught him to weave his own. And there, he sang of the sadness of knowing about fire and being kept away from it, of knowing there were more flowers than his own and never being allowed to see them, and the song was his, now, and he stopped, because he knew not where it should go.

Olórin had a curious expression in his eyes. “My friend sang that to you?”

“No. No,” said Mairon, shaking his head in embarrassment. “The beginning was his song. After was… a mistake, I think.”

“Not a mistake, small one. It was your song, and it was very beautiful. I was glad to hear it. I am glad my friend showed you how to sing. Your voice is very fair, and I will gladly hear it again.”

“Will I see him again, now that you are back?”

“Yes. I will have to leave again, and besides, I think that might be wise for you to know someone else. I often feel much too old, when I’m with you.”

Mairon shook his head. “I love you as you are and would not want you any different.”

Olórin laughed ruefully. “It is strange to hear you say you love me, little one. I do not know that I have done much to warrant that love.”

Mairon looked at him in adoration. “You have done everything,” he said.


	4. Pictures in the water

Days passed, all the same as the last, and to Mairon, the hours when he was alone seemed to stretch out longer and longer each day, whereas the moments he spent with Olórin or his new elf-friend seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

He grew bored with the sky and clouds. Though they changed each day, they seemed to him always the same, similar patterns repeating endlessly. Even the sea seemed dull after a while, its song always the same, and he yearned for more. The stars he still loved, and he tried to remember what their course had been each night to see how it changed minutely day after day, but even so, the nights felt long and often empty.

He paced in his small, high-ceilinged room, counted every stone he could find and learned to know them, tried to understand how and why they were placed the way they were and not some other way. He tried to imagine what he could do with stones like that, other rooms he could make, but since he only knew his own and it was hard to picture. 

He found solace in singing songs to himself, long songs that told of his longing to know more things and see new places, songs of praise to his friends, particularly to Olórin, whom he loved above all things he knew.

And one morning, as he played with his little plant, feeling he might go quite mad with boredom, he found by accident something so strange and exciting he could hardly wait until his elf-friend was there, for it was one of the days when Olórin was away.

As soon as the elf was here, Mairon grabbed him by the hand and skipped to the little hollow he had made to keep the water in. Then he made his friend sit and watch, and showed him his trick. Slowly, he trailed a finger in the water, blurring the surface. And then, slowly, new shapes appeared in the water, like reflections of something that wasn’t there.

“Look at that!” he said, showing the shapes to the elf. “See? Isn’t it beautiful!”

“How are you doing that, Mairon?” asked the elf, and although his tone was light, there was a worry in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” Mairon confessed with a laugh. “It just happened as I was playing with the water. If I keep doing it, the picture gets clearer. See?”

The elf looked closely. “Those are trees,” he breathed.  
“Are they? The ones you speak of in your songs?”

“Yes,” the elf said, but he frowned, troubled. 

“But look how tall and stately they are! I am not surprised, now, that you always sing about trees.”

“My kind loves trees,” said the elf.

“I can see why you would. They are beautiful! Oh, and see, I have found something else, look! ” He trailed his finger in the water in a different pattern, and the image changed. “See? Like a great rock, covered in white.”

“It is snow, and that is a mountain. Mairon, dearest, you should not look into the water thus. It is a power you should not have. It is too perilous.”

“How can images be perilous?” Mairon asked, and shrugged.

“Those are not mere images, dearest. I know this mountain well. It is Caradhras, in the Misty Mountains.Those are far away places you are seeing. It is dangerous. Do not play with this anymore.”

“But I want to!” pouted Mairon. “I can see nothing from here. Just the sea and the sky, and the sea is always empty. “

“Mairon, you mustn’t. I will tell Mithrandir, if you keep doing this. It is wrong.”

“But why?” said Mairon, a strange feeling in his heart. He did not understand. This was unfair. How could he do anything wrong by just looking? Vexed, he struck the surface of the still water with his hand, and the image of the mountain blurred, replaced by something else. Something dark. Around his fingers, a shadow was growing within the water, twirling around his fingers in thin tendrils.

“Mairon… what are you doing? This looks foul.”

“This is just an image,” shrugged Mairon. “It is nothing.”

The darkness spread around his fingers, until it grew all over the water, and then it was clear it was truly an image, the image of a dark place. A cave of some sort, made of sharp, dark rocks, and in the middle, a crystal-like shape, tall and dark, wrapped in something like a chain.

Mairon looked into the water, fascinated. There was something in the crystal, a face, pale and regal, its eyes closed. It was the face of a man, his stern features unlike any that Mairon had seen. His high brow spoke of power, the curve of his lips of authority and of the strongest will. There were faint scars on his face, but they could not mar his beauty. Behind him, dimly visible in the crystal, strands of black hair floated, frozen. 

“Who is this?” breathed Mairon, looking at the pale being encased in the dark crystal.  
“He is beautiful.”

“Ai!” cried out the elf, pulling him away. “Do not look! You must not look, Mairon, or you will be lost.”

“But he is beautiful!”

“Mairon, my friend, do not call him that. We do not call _him_ beautiful. You must not look at him. He is a creature of evil, of terror. You do not know…”

“No. I do not know.” Mairon bit his lip. “I know nothing, because this is what Olórin wants. What you want. But I would know about him. His face…”

“You must not. Dear friend, trust me. This is a dangerous game, for reasons I cannot explain to you. Do not look in the water again. If it is trees you wish to see, I will ask Olórin if I can take you to see them. Real trees. You would like that, would you not?”

Mairon tilted his head to the side. “Outside this tower?”

“Not far. But yes, outside this tower. Would you like that?”

Mairon nodded. “I would. More than anything.”

“Good. But, my friend, you must promise. Swear to me you will not look into the water again. For me. It would hurt me grievously if you did.”

“I would not wish to hurt you,” said Mairon hesitantly. 

“No, dear heart. I know you wouldn’t.”

“I need the water for my plant.”

“You can use the water, sweet one. But do not look for images in it anymore. This is powerful and ancient magic, and you are forbidden from it.”

“I am forbidden from everything,” said Mairon petulantly. “I cannot leave this place. I cannot ask questions. Olórin says I am not to kiss him anymore, and even you draw away from me when I kiss you these days.”

“It is not…” The elf raised an eyebrow. “You kissed _Mithrandir_?” 

“Yes. He is kind and fair, like you. Why shouldn’t I?”

The elf looked away, a frown on his fair face. “You can kiss who you choose, of course, if that person does not mind it.”

“But you do mind, is that it? Is that why you pull away from me, now?” Mairon moved away from the water, close to the elf, looking up into his face. “Do you not like my kisses anymore?”

“Dear heart, I…” the elf sighed, and looked away from Mairon’s face. “I do like your kisses. But they awaken a great hunger in me. A hunger for a thing you do not know, and I do not wish to take from you.”

“I would give it freely, if it is mine to give.”

“Sweet Mairon, your heart is pure as snow. I am the one in the wrong. You can kiss me freely, and I will not pull away anymore. I did not realise it was cruel to do so. But... do not give your kisses to Olórin, I beg of you.”

“Why?”

“Always with your whys, dear heart. Some things are difficult to explain. Because it grieves me. Is that not enough?”

Why should a kiss to Olórin grieve his friend? Mairon did not understand. There were so many things he did not understand.

“I will not play with the water anymore,” he said. “And I _would_ like to see a tree, if Olórin thinks it good. And…” he moved even closer, and took the elf’s hands in his. “I will not kiss him, if it grieves you so. Will you kiss me now?”

“Yes, dear one,” said the elf, pulling him to his chest, and pressed his lips to Mairon’s.


	5. The Herald of Manwë

Mairon awoke the next day to unfamiliar footsteps, and this sound filled his heart with an unknown dread. He clambered to his feet clumsily, and forced his eyes to meet this new being, although it seemed at first the being shone with a light too terrible to withstand.

But then he saw it was someone both like and unlike Olórin, tall with white hair and shining silver eyes that seemed to pierce Mairon’s heart. And though his shape was beautiful, his lip was curved in a sneer and his gaze was cold, and Mairon who had never known anything but kindness suddenly felt fear grip his heart.

“Who are you?” he asked, and his voice shook.

“I might well ask the same of you, for you are most changed,” said the being with a scornful laugh. “How strange that you should look so sweet, when there is such darkness in you.”

“What darkness?” asked Mairon. “What is inside me?”

“Treachery and evil, and the desire to do harm. Though a great mercy was given to you, you have sought out the Dark One in his prison in the Void, betraying the trust that was given to you.” The being raised an arm commandingly. “And I, Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, have come to mete punishment out on you.”

Mairon recoiled, as if struck. “I do not understand,” he said. “What wrong have I done?”

“Do not pretend, dissembler,” the being with cold, shining eyes sneered. “I trusted you once. I saw your tears and believed you were changed, and gave you mercy. And how did you reward me? You deceived and betrayed me, you Enemy of all that is good, you saw my pity and laughed at it in your heart and used it to save yourself. You are a liar and a traitor, and I will never trust you again.”

“I…” stammered Mairon. “I have no knowledge of these things. How could I have betrayed you, when this is the first time I lay eyes on you?”

“Yes, you have forgotten much, they say, as you were undone by the ring you yourself forged and your pitiful soul fled back to Mandos. But even if you do not know me, I know you. I can see you for what you are, serpent of Morgoth. You are a traitor and a tyrant, an enslaver and torturer, destroyer of Men and Elves, usurper and necromancer. Your words are lies, your gifts poison and your fairness a mockery of beauty.”

Mairon took a step back, stunned by these words that pierced him like lances, and stumbled and fell to the ground. He curled up on himself, for even though he wanted to run, he knew not where to go, and covered his eyes, that he might not see this fearful being anymore.

“Enough, Eönwë!” came a voice he knew and loved. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Olórin,” said the herald. “I knew I would find you here. I come from Manwë, to cast judgement upon this foul creature. Will you defend him? Do you not know what he has done?”

Mairon felt a hand upon his head and looked up into Olórin’s kind, worried eyes. “Mairon has done nothing wrong. There was no malice in his actions. Those are but the stumblings of a child, trying to make sense of the world on his own. Did I not warn about the danger of keeping him so alone? Did I not say ignorance and isolation would not help his growth, but twist it? That if repentance was what was required from him, then he would first need to learn of the good of the world, of how it should be, before being made to understand what he himself has wrought?”

Mairon hid his face in Olórin’s robes, and their smell of earth and leaves and pipe-weed smoke was soothing to him, more than these words, for they contained much he did not understand.

“On that point we are in agreement,” said Eönwë coldly. “He should not be kept here alone with so much time on his hands, idle, free to scheme against us. Our Lord Manwë was right from the start: he should be on his knees, serving those he hurt, not be allowed to while away the days in sloth.”

“I do not agree,” said Olórin, and his voice was like thunder, and Mairon cowered. “He needs time to mend. His spirit has been grievously wounded. At least he is growing and mending, here. This is what the Lady Nienna wished for him. The only wrong is in keeping him in such solitude and boredom. Have I not said, many times, that with his mind it would lead to more harm than good?”

“Yes, I know your arguments well, and I tire of them, Olórin. You would teach him, as though he were a child. But some of us know it is best he were kept from knowledge, for we know too well what he would do with it.”

“And how well did that work? His mind seeks to learn. His hands seek employment. His Fire was taken from him, and what came to pass? He found some power in Water instead.”

“Because his wickedness knows no bounds, and he’ll use anything to gain power again.”

Olórin huffed angrily. “How strange, that you should be so blind when you have seen so much, Eönwë.”

“I have seen enough to know there are things that don’t change. You have spent too much time with short-lived Children, Olórin. Perhaps they change as the seasons do, but we do not.”

“I know what I have seen of him. There is much good in him that could grow, if given the chance. But doing this will undo all we have striven for.”

“Then you must take it up with Lord Manwë yourself. I am not here to debate this again with you. I have been ordered to take him away, and it is what I shall do. Would you defy Lord Manwë’s orders? You are strong, Olórin, but you are not strongest.”

Olórin drew himself up to his full height, and suddenly he shone with a bright and fearful light. But as he raised his arm, Mairon’s heart was filled with fear, and he reached out and grabbed Olórin’s arm tightly, pulling it down.

“No, Olórin, no,” he begged. “Please do not do this. It is my fault. I am in the wrong. I will go with him. Please do not fight on my behalf.”

Olórin looked down on him with sadness. “Little one,” he said, “I would not see you harmed.”

Mairon shook his head. “No. Do not trouble yourself. I will go with him, if his Lord wills it, but please, Olórin, I beg of you, do not fight for me, for I love you and it would grieve me so.”

The other being, the one called Eönwë, laughed a harsh laugh. “How fair is his speech. Truly, it is wonderful how skilful this creature is. Perhaps you have been seduced by his lies, though they call you the wisest of all of us?”

“I hope I am wiser than _you_ , at any rate, though I fear that would not be difficult,” said Olórin angrily. 

Mairon took Olórin’s hand in his and stroked it once, then taking a deep breath, he stood and crossed the space between them and the other being. “I will go with you,” he said, and he felt proud that his voice did not tremble and his eyes were dry. “I will go with you, but do not rage so at Olórin. I do not understand fully, but it seems to me I must have done a great wrong, and if I must be punished for it, then so be it. But please leave my friend alone.”

“I have heard you say those words before,” snarled Eönwë. “You bowed your head before me, and made obeisance, and because my heart was foolish and tricked by your fair words and pretty face, I believed you when you said you would accept punishment. Never again, I swore then, and I repeat my oath now. Never again will I trust you.”

“Then do not trust me,” said Mairon, and there was an anger in his heart, and he found it gave him the strength to look the Herald in the eye. “I am not asking for your trust or your kindness. I am trying to obey your orders, so you leave Olórin alone.”

He heard Olórin sigh behind him, but fearing it would weaken his resolve, he did not dare turn back and look at him. Holding his head high, he walked past Eönwë without a glance for him, past the door and down the stairs that led outside. 

As for the first time he felt the ground under his feet, and saw the immensity of the world in front of him, he felt a great fear and pain fill his heart. But he did not wish to show Eönwë his fear, and so he gritted his teeth and hid what was in his heart, which he never had to do with those he had loved.

There were others waiting at the foot of the tower, elves he did not know and who regarded him with anger in their eyes. It seemed to him they were many, for he had known few people in his short existence, though they were in truth not much more than a handful. Eönwë gave an order, and they bound his hands and tied his wrists by a rope to the pommel of one of the horses’ saddles. 

Then with an order from Eönwë, the entire company started going forth, and he walked by the side of the horses, that seemed to him at first scary because they were so large. He soon realised these were gentle creatures that meant him no harm, but his captors were not so gentle. They barked orders at him, and looked upon him with hatred and scorn, though he knew not why. Whenever he stumbled, and at first it was often, because the ground was uneven and full of roots and rocks that turned under his feet in ways that were new to him, they pulled at his ties and shoved at him with angry hands, urging him on.

He found it easier, in the end, to fix his eyes on his own bare feet. That way he could avoid their cold eyes and try to keep himself from falling so much. And even though he saw the light change and knew they must have entered what his elf-friend had once called a forest, he did not look at the trees. He did not wish to anymore.


	6. In Eldamar where the elves dwell

The road was long, and Mairon grew weary of being dragged, of the pain in his tender feet and of the sneer on Eönwë’s face each time he stumbled. And thus it came to pass a new feeling entered his heart, and that was pride, for he was loath to let his captors see his weariness or his fear. He walked with his head high, even though his gaze was fixed on the ground, and he remained silent, and tried to ignore the whisperings of the elves and Eönwë’s scorn.

After days of travels they came upon a large house, made of stone, and there they stopped. But Eönwë did not dismount, and from his horse, spoke thus to Mairon: “Listen well, fiend. The elves that dwell here have suffered grievously by your hand. They are Ñoldorin, once held in thrall by you and your foul master. You will serve them, and try to atone for the harm you have done. I believe you are incapable of repentance, but Lord Manwë in his grace thinks penance might teach you something. We will see.” 

He turned to the elves. “I give him to you. Do what you will of him. Any employment you find will still be too good for him.” And with these words, Eönwë left.

The elves took Mairon into the hall of the house, and many more came out to gaze upon their captive, with cruel smiles and smug glances, slowly gathering around him.

One of them pushed Mairon to the ground. “You will kneel when in our presence, slave.”

Another laughed. “A wonderful sight indeed. The lord of Angband brought to his knees.”

The elves paced in a circle around him, and there was a dark hunger in their eyes.

“He is to serve us, they said. I wonder how?”

One of them scoffed. “It is true he is much diminished. But I like seeing him like that, without his strength.”

“What shall we use him for? Even the lowest labour seems too good for him.”

“His shape is wondrously fair,” said one, an elf with cold eyes. “Perhaps that can be how he serves.”

“Would that be right?”

“Should I tell you what he did to us? How he smiled as he ripped the flesh away from the bones of those I loved?”

The hatred in the cold elf’s voice stung, vicious. Mairon had never heard hatred before, but he knew it for what it was, and cringed. A hand grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. It hurt. Nothing had ever hurt like this. His eyes filled with tears.

“I believe it would be only fair. I had to watch as he defiled my sister. As he laughed, and burned her alive when he was done. Why should we be merciful?”

“True.” said a third elf. “We have all been grievously wounded by his hand. His mind is poison, poison and lies. I want nothing his hand or his mind could give. But his flesh, that I can accept.”

* * *

When they were done with him, they threw him in a dark room, empty but for a few broken pieces of furniture, and locked the door. 

Mairon sat against a wall, hugging his knees, cold and frightened and heartsick. He was naked, for the elves had ripped the clothes from his back, and filthy with their spit and seed. His skin crawled from the memory of their touch.

He had been bewildered and confused at their actions, having not known bodies could do that, that the thing between his legs could grow and harden and be used to hurt, the way the elves’ had. It seemed to him like a cruel thing to have, even though the elves had seemed to enjoy shoving it inside him. It seemed strange that they should want to do that, and strange that that part of them spat a strange liquid that felt bitter on his tongue and stung his eyes. And it had hurt, even though his body was strong and not easily torn despite its delicate shape.

The pain he could withstand, he found, though he was unused to it. The cruelty of their eyes and words was much more terrible. They had looked upon him as though he was something hateful, something foul, and that had pained him deeply.

This had taught him pain and fear could make him cry as well as beauty or love, but for some reason that did not fully make sense to him he did not want those elves to see his tears. In the midst of this incomprehensible ordeal, it was the one thought he held onto. He did not know why he cared so much, since certainly his assailants had not cared, but the same pride that had helped him hold his head high in front of Eönwë had been in his heart, and he had not cried, he had not begged for mercy, he had not said a single word, in fact, as they hit him, pushed him to the ground, as they spread his legs and thrust carelessly into a part of his form he had never truly considered before, having had no use for it.

But now, alone in this dark place, the tears would not stop flowing, even though he did not know if it was sorrow or fear or regret that made him weep thus. He felt alone, more alone than he had ever been in his life.

Then suddenly there was a light, silent and bright, and he looked up at the form of Olórin, shining with an inner light in the middle of his cell.

“Olórin?” he gasped. “How can you be here? Is this a dream?”

Olòrin smiled sadly, and his shape dimmed, and seemed to become more solid. “It is not a dream, yet I am not fully there either, little one. I was forbidden to help you, but I wanted to see you. How are you?”

“Olórin, they…” Mairon’s voice broke. “They hurt me.”

“I can see that, little one.” Olórin sat on a piece of wood, and beckoned for Mairon to come closer. Eagerly, Mairon knelt at his feet, resting his head against Olórin’s knee. He felt real, though his shape shimmered slightly in the dark.

Mairon looked up at Olórin and sighed. “I do not understand why they do this thing.”

“For revenge. But I do not believe in revenge.”

“They said I did terrible things. Is it true? Do I deserve this?”

Olórin stroked Mairon’s hair. His touch was real, and yet felt distant. “This is a hard question to answer. It is true, yes, in a way. You were something else before, and that being was guilty of great evil. But what you are now? I do not think so. You are reborn, and I have watched you, and I have seen nothing but good in you. What you are now does not deserve this harshness. This is what I believe.”

“I think, perhaps, that it is those elves that are evil. You do not know what they did, Olórin. They did strange, hateful things to my body. I did not understand any of it.”

Olórin’s hand stopped for a second, then resumed stroking Mairon’s hair. “I am so sorry, little one, that this is how you should learn of this. And I do not know that I would be adept at explaining it, anyway. It is not what I know best. But I do want you to know one thing. What they did, they did out of spite and hatred, and that makes it an awful thing. But when it is done with love, it can be beautiful.”

That made Mairon want to laugh. “It can't be true. How could you do something like that out of love? It hurts. It is evil.”

“My poor Mairon. It should not be me telling you this, in this terrible place. It is…” Olórin stopped, deep in thought, looking for an image Mairon could understand. “It is like the difference between kissing and biting,” he said finally. “The touch of your beloved’s mouth is the loveliest thing, the bite of an enemy the foulest. Yet both involve skin and mouth, do they not?”

“I think I understand what you mean. And yet I do not see how this could be pleasant. It is all bite. There is no one to kiss me, here.”

There were tears in Olórin’s eyes, and he drew Mairon close and kissed his forehead. “My little one. This is too much cruelty, no matter how dark your sins.”

“I do not understand why everyone speaks of sins and atonement and punishment,” wailed Mairon. “What have I done wrong, that I must suffer so?”

“I am forbidden to speak of it, little one. And perhaps it is more merciful that you should not know. But I do not see the point of this punishment if you do not know why you are punished. I will try to talk to Manwë again, though I fear he will not change his mind.”

“Do not talk to him!” said Mairon quickly. “He must be cruel and cold, to have servants this wicked. I would not have you suffer as I do.”

“I do not know that they are wicked. They have been hurt, and they want to hurt in return. That, sadly, is in the nature of most living things.”

“You do not hurt me. I do not believe you would hurt anyone.” Mairon closed his eyes. Though he knew Olórin was not fully there, it felt to him as though he could smell the scent of his robes, and it was soothing. “I am weary, Olórin, and my body hurts. Yet I fear sleep. My dreams will be dark. Will you stay with me until I fall asleep?”

“Gladly, little one.”

Olórin lit a pipe, and the sweet scent of the smoke filled the room like a distant memory. Mairon rested his aching head, and listened as Olórin sang a low, soothing song under his breath, his hand still in Mairon’s hair.

There must have been some power in Olórin’s song, for soon Mairon felt the pain slowly drain out of him and a warm, pleasant feeling replaced it. The world seemed to have lost all sharp edges, all harshness. Now it seemed as though it was the rest of the room that was unreal, and Olórin the only thing that was truly there.

Mairon looked up at Olórin with half-lidded eyes. “Will you kiss me, Olórin?”

“Yes, little one, if you wish.”

Mairon climbed up into Olórin’s lap, and pressed his lips to his, and they were soft and tasted of the rich, sweet taste of his pipe, and suddenly he felt like this wasn’t enough, and he chased that taste into Olórin’s mouth, his hands tangled in his thick grey hair.

“Olórin,” he moaned between kisses, “Olórin. All is so good when I am with you.”

“Little one, calm down. I am here, for now. Be still.”

But Mairon did not want to be still, or calm. Those kisses seemed to have lit a fire within him, waking a new kind of hunger that seemed to burn into his very bones. And not only his soul, but his body seemed to yearn for Olórin in a way that was new. 

Olórin held him gently, letting Mairon do as he would, kissing him ever deeper, until his tongue was deep in Olórin’s mouth as though he wanted to drink his sweetness, and his head swam with joy. He pressed his body to Olórin’s, and strange sounds escaped his lips, mewling sounds of need he had never made before, and that part of him that had thus far laid inert between his legs stirred, and grew, and hardened, but instead of being dismayed, he was overjoyed, for he felt an answering hardness beneath Olórin’s white robes, and it pleased him greatly.

And then he understood what Olórin’s words about kisses and bites truly meant, because Olórin gently, carefully wrapped his clever hand around Mairon’s aching hardness and it felt sweeter than any kiss. And as Olórin stroked his skin gently, Mairon arched his back, breathless, because he had never known such pleasure.

And he wanted Olórin to feel this too, so he reached within the wise being’s robes to take out his member, and he found it beautiful, hard, with skin soft as silk, and he stroked Olórin in return, copying his skilful hands, kissing him deeply, until both were spent.

And his heart was full of love and song, as though there was no darkness anywhere, and he was glad. He took Olórin’s hand in his and licked their spend off of his fingers carefully, and it was nothing like that of those cruel elves. It tasted good to him, earthy and rich, and his heart was glad.

When he was done, he climbed back onto Olórin’s lap and curled up against him, warm with happiness. Olórin stroked his hair softly.

“I never imagined this would happen, little one,” he confessed ruefully.

“Do you regret it?” said Mairon, his heart suddenly full of fear.

“I do not. You are dear to me, and this was sweet beyond all sweetness. But I fear I have gone too far. I fear…”

“What do you fear, Olórin?” said Mairon, feeling suddenly cold, as though a shadow was passing over the sun.

“Nothing. Nothing, little one. You should rest. “

And Olórin picked up his song, and Mairon’s eyes closed, and he slept a dreamless, peaceful sleep.


	7. The teachings of pain

How long Mairon slept, he did not know, for there was no light from the sky in the room where he was. But he slept well, as though still bathed in Olórin’s presence, and he had almost forgotten all pain and sorrow when he was jolted awake by the harsh prodding of the elves, come to take their pleasure of him again.

He found it easier to bear, at least at first, because his heart had been strengthened by his love for Olórin, and so he found their harsh words and scornful eyes did not hurt him as they had before. He bore what they did to him proudly, without a sound of protest, and he was glad to see that seemed to dismay them. They whispered amongst themselves, and their hands turned more cruel, but he merely smiled to himself because pain seemed like an easy thing to endure now, and their hatred inconsequent, compared to Olórin’s kindness.

Then they stopped, and looked upon him. “The depraved creature does not seem to care what we do,” said one.

“We are being too tender with him. This is probably sweet lovemaking for him. He was Morgoth’s whore, after all. Weren’t you, Sauron?” said another, with a kick to Mairon’s ribs.

Something unnamed stirred within Mairon at that name, and for the first time, he spoke. “Why do you all call me this? It is not my name,” he said, looking up at his tormentor through his veil of hair.

“It speaks,” scoffed the elf. “You do not like that name? Would you prefer Gorthaur, as the Sindar called you? I could call you worse, betrayer, murderer. All you are is pain and destruction. I know this,” the elf said, striking his own chest with his fist. “I know this in my flesh. I remember how my friends and I died by your hand. Not quickly, no. You revelled in our suffering, lord of torture, master of pain. I know it well.”

“I have no knowledge of this.”

The elf sneered. “Look how he lies. And besides, why should it matter? You do not remember? That does not absolve you of your sins. And I shall remind you soon enough. Next time, I shall bring a whip. You seemed to like them so. We will see if that brings back any memories.”

* * *

Mairon did not know what a whip was, but the pain taught him. And this time, he was not able to hold back his tears or his cries, such was the burn of the lash, and the elf laughed in victory as he heard him. And that laugh burned more than the whip.

And he looked at his body, after everything, when the young elf was spent and had left the room, spitting at him for good measure, and wondered at the blood that was flowing from the dozens of cuts the whip had opened on his skin. He had not seen blood spilled before. And even though the pain made his head swim and his eyes water, he thought his own blood had a strange beauty to it as it dripped to the floor, and without knowing why he drew designs with it on the floor, and they pleased him in an odd, fey fashion. And he told himself he might learn to bear the whip, as he had learned to bear the elves’ touch, and that soon it would no longer matter to him, and it made him proud, and glad.

The next time the elf came with the whip, Mairon smiled a mirthless smile at him. “Do what you will,” he said. “It is nothing.”

“We shall see,” said the elf. “We shall see. I have time, and I have learnt much about pain at your hands. I once thought I could bear whatever torments you brought upon me. That was before you destroyed all hope within me, all memories of good. Perhaps you too have hope, so let me tell you this.” The elf knelt on the floor, next to Mairon, and pulled his face close to his by his hair. “I know the one we call Mithrandir was kind to you, as indeed he is kind to all living things, no matter how undeserving. Know this, Sauron. You will _never_ see him again.”

Mairon’s heart clenched with a deep burning ache. “Why?” he asked, the words escaping his lips without thought. “Where is Olórin?”

“He has been sent away from these lands, because of you and your wiles, Sauron,” and the elf smiled as he saw the effect of these words. “Your attempt at corruption was seen, and Lord Manwë cast him out of Valinor for a time. It is your fault.”

“No,” wailed Mairon. “No, I never meant to harm him. Why? Why did this happen?”

“Because you are poison, Sauron, and you harm everything you touch. This is why.”

* * *

The marks left by the whip made what came next more painful. His usual tormentors came back, with their cruel hands, and used his body, and this time he screamed with the pain of it, his wounds reopened each time he was dragged carelessly along the floor, pulled by the hair the way they liked to do. 

All pretence was forgotten, for his heart was broken, and that hurt even more than his wounds. Afterward, he gathered his long dirty hair around him, as though it could protect him from the words of the elf. He felt as though he had no tears left to weep, for his loss was too great and too incomprehensible, and the thought he might never see Olórin again felt like it might break him in two.

And as he thought about it, his sorrow and bewilderment turned to anger at those who had hurt him so, those that had punished his kind-hearted Olórin so cruelly, and for the first time he knew hatred.

And that hatred brought with it a kind of wild joy unlike anything he had ever felt, and to his own horror, instead of crying, he found himself laughing, laughing at the absurdity of all hope and the end of all good things.

* * *

He laughed for a long time. He made no effort to tidy himself up, and so when the elves came back, they looked upon him with disgust, and talked amongst themselves. Mairon did not hear what they said. He did not want to listen.

The elves left, and one came back, holding a jar of water. He poured some over Mairon, who gasped at the cold, and instructed him to clean himself, and left.

And Mairon, instead of doing what he had been asked to do, gathered some of the water in his hands, and smiled a secret smile. Softly, he blew on it, to trouble its surface, and let his mind reach in until he found the image he was looking for. In the shallow water held by his hands, it was indistinct, but he knew it immediately. The crystal he had seen, and the fair figure inside. He gazed at the being’s face raptly, trying to etch it deep within his memory, because he did not know when he might be given water again. 

Yet the thought that he’d seen that being again warmed his heart. Olórin might be lost to him, but this figure he could still see, even though he did not know if there was any way he could be reached.

He had promised, once, to his elf-friend, that he would not seek out this being again. But in this place, there were no friends, and the elves were cruel. Surely no one could begrudge him this comfort, that knowledge that somewhere there existed this dark figure, this Lord, beautiful as the coldest night, noblest than the oldest star.

And he felt sadness, that this Lord should be imprisoned thus, just as he was, when those despicable elves were free, but that sadness soon turned to anger.

And the hatred in his heart grew, for those that kept him here to hurt him, those who had sent Olórin away, and those who had locked that fair Lord in a prison. That pale Lord was fairer than all of them, and he seemed wise and powerful, and compared to him they were nothing. Yet they lived, to torment Mairon, while that Lord slept as though dead.

It was unfair, wrongly done. That Mairon should be punished was one thing, although he still did not know why, but why should this most fair one be treated this? And he knew, in his heart, that those who were inflicting this on him were the same as the ones who had imprisoned this beautiful Lord.

And a strong and dark resolve came upon him. He would think of a path, by which those torts might be redressed, some revenge obtained. It was still dim in his mind, some details unclear to himself because he knew not what he could truly accomplish, but something was telling him this path would lead somewhere. It would require cunning and dissemblance, and Mairon did not know if he was capable of those, but he had to try.


	8. Threads of gold

The next time the elves came to take their pleasure of him, once his wounds were healed, Mairon had made himself as clean as he could, and had combed out his hair painstakingly with his fingers so it shone like fire. When they came in, he turned his eyes up to them so they glittered like gold.

“What is the creature doing?” asked one of them. “He is not like always.”

“Perhaps this is some trick,” said one, prodding him with his foot.

Mairon shook his head. “No, my masters,” he said, although the word was bitter on his tongue. “This is no trick. I would please you. I have learned to fear the whip, and I want to please you.”

One elf laughed. “What, have we tamed Sauron, in the end?”

Mairon looked up at the elves and smiled as sweetly as he knew how. “The Lord Manwë said I was to serve. I want to serve you, my masters. I beg of you, show me how I may please you.”

The elves were distrustful at first, and still harsh with him. They asked him to kneel, and spread his legs for them, and he did, while cunningly learning from their reaction the most beguiling way to present himself, until the elves seemed to burn with desire at the sight of him.

At their command, he took them in his mouth, but instead of letting them thrust artlessly within his throat, this time he stroked them with his tongue and lips, letting their need guide him, and after each one he grew more and more skilled, until they looked at him with something like wonder.

“What change has come upon him?” whispered one. “He is so very lovely, thus.”

“I merely wish to please you, masters,” Mairon said, looking up through his thick eyelashes. And in his heart, he danced with joy at how easily they had been to fool.

“It is true Manwë wanted him to serve,” said one softly. “I have often wondered whether we did wrong to hurt him so. Perhaps we were right, if it has taught him respect. He could serve us.”

“I do not yet trust him,” frowned another. “He can serve us here, until I feel his intent is true.”

“I would be glad to, my master,” said Mairon softly, and raised his beautiful eyes, and he saw that already the hearts of the elves were wavering, and he hid his face behind the veil of his hair and smiled a savage smile.

* * *

From this moment on, every time the elves were with him, he made himself lovely. Instead of lying inert and passive, he smiled, and coiled his limbs around them like a snake, and trembled and gasped under them as though their loathed touch had awoken some pleasure in him as well. He had found the trick of making himself hard, and that seemed to surprise them at first. They acted as though they thought it strange his flesh should react, but Mairon could see in their eyes they were pleased, and liked when they could make him spill with their touch. He would moan in passion then, although in truth he felt nothing, for it was all fakery and lies.

Slowly, caress after caress, he could feel them bind himself to him, and slowly grow intoxicated with him as though he were a too-rich wine. Soon some of the elves started bringing him small trinkets - bracelets, and rings, and chain of gold to wrap around his waist and his neck, and hoops for his ears, until he glittered in the dark like a dragon’s hoard, and precious silks to lie on, until that dark basement looked like a prince’s chamber. 

They believed, in their foolishness, that they were doing this for their own enjoyment, so their captive would be even prettier to look at and they’d have something comfortable to lie on as they took pleasure of him, but Mairon knew they were the one at his mercy, now. When they came to him, they were as flies entering a spider’s web, and he wove his magic into them.

For he had found a new trick in his cunningness. He took strands of his long supple hair, and worked them with Power in his hands until they grew so thin they could neither be seen nor felt, and yet were strong as steel, and obeyed his every command

And when he was with the elves, and they were distracted, he would work those strands through their skin, with careful gestures undetected in the midst of his caresses, and then direct those strands to wind themselves deep within the elves, around their hearts, or the life-veins in their throats and arms. This he did, slowly, until there were threads of gold only he could see within all of them, waiting for his command.

And then he waited, for he knew the right time would come soon.

* * *

Soon, the elves started preparing for the celebration of the new year. And by then it seemed natural to them that Mairon should be there with them in their great hall to celebrate, for in truth, they could no longer remember why he should be kept locked away in a basement and not by their side always, when he was so lovely and dear to them. 

They discussed it amongst themselves, and found they were all as confused, for all of them had forgotten, so strong was Mairon’s hold on them They could not remember now why Eönwë had brought this being to them, or indeed why they had called him any other name than Mairon, or Beloved, or Precious One, for they cherished him above all things. They decided perhaps Eönwë had brought him as a gift to them once, a long time ago, and that it was because he was so precious that he was kept locked away, like a great treasure jealously guarded. 

None of them could remember now the name Sauron, and the hatred that had been in their heart.

And it seemed to all of them fitting that he should be there for the feast, that they might admire him, for was he not the most beautiful ornament they had?

* * *

And so it was that on the last night of that year, Mairon was brought to their great hall, carried in their arms like an idol, for they did not want his feet to have to touch the naked ground, so besotted were they.

Mairon looked upon the handsome hall, with its countless columns and its large reflecting pool in the center, and its tall white ceiling where stones glittered like stars, and smiled. All of them were there, all the ones who had touched him, the ones he had bound with his secret golden thread. He could feel it around him, buried deep within them, wrapped around their hearts, their throats, their wrists, strong and invisible still, and his heart was glad. 

They called for him to dance, and he danced, standing on one of the high tables, a beautiful dance of joy. They clapped and exclaimed at his beauty and skill, like fools, not knowing how close they were to death.

After his dance, he went to sit by the pretty silvery pool that lay in the middle of the hall, and watched the golden leaves that floated on top of the water. The elves were making merry, singing and drinking and dancing, but he was waiting. The moment was not yet right.

A hand roused him from his reverie, a soft hand on his shoulder. He looked up, taking pain to hide the glee and excitement that were in his heart, and to his great surprise, it was his elf-friend, the one he’d known when he’d lived in the white tower.

“Mairon…” said the elf, with concern in his face. “Long have I tried to reach you. Dear friend, are you well?”

“Elf-friend!” he cried out, and threw his arms around his neck. “I am glad to see you, dear one. Though…” Mairon paused, and bit his lip. “I wish you had not come tonight.”

“I have been troubled about your fate, and even more since Mithrandir was sent away. I heard you were kept here, and this is why I came” The elf looked at him, at his nakedness covered in glittering gems. “This is not right. Why are you dressed thus?”

“Do you not find it pretty?” Mairon asked, raising his arms where countless golden bracelets shone.

“Pretty though it may be, it is not right you should be like this, like a jewel for their eyes. Mairon, what do they do to you?”

A giggle forced its way through Mairon’s lips. “Anything they want. I serve. And they give me these things in return.”

“How do you serve them, Mairon?” asked the elf, and he sounded dismayed. “This looks wrong to me. There is something foul at work here. Something that should not be. I think I shall tell…”

Mairon pressed his hand to his elf-friend’s mouth. “No. No, do not speak. Olórin spoke and he was sent away. Do not trouble yourself. I am well. I do not mind this, my friend.”

Mairon wished he could share the glee he was feeling with his elf-friend, the secret of those threads he had woven around inside every single one of the elves there, yet he knew he couldn’t. Besides, the time was near. His elf-friend would see what he had done.

The moon had almost reached its highest point in the sky, and the elves called for him to dance again. He kissed his friend’s lips lightly, and for a moment he was struck by the memory of how he used to feel, before his heart was filled with despair and hatred and madness, and it shook him. It felt like pure snow upon a red-hot blade, and his eyes filled with tears he had not felt in a long time.

But his resolve only wavered for a second, and as the kiss broke, he felt like himself again, and went to stand in the middle of the hall, where the ceiling opened to let the moonlight in.

He danced, golden-red in the silver moonlight, and a great hush fell upon the hall, until even the music fell silent, and all the elves gathered around the pool and watched with glistening eyes. He danced so lightly his feet did not sink when he stepped onto the surface of the water and stood at the center of the pool, his light reflected as he danced, quick and sure-footed.

And when the moon was just right, and his dance reached its peak, he gathered in his hands all the invisible threads he had wound inside the elves, around their beating hearts, and in one sudden gesture he pulled, and those unbreakable threads tore through the elves’ flesh, ripping their hearts, and they fell, dead for the most part before they even hit the ground.


	9. The pool and the cave

After the last elf died, all was silence under the moonlight. Mairon stood, and looked at what he had wrought, and for a moment again his heart wavered as he saw the lifeless bodies on the floor, the blood flowing crimson into the reflecting pool, tainting it a deep red. In that moment, he felt a deep sadness at what he had done, a horror and fear at the sight of so much death.

And then it passed, and a dark joy filled his heart at his victory, and he laughed. When he looked at the great pool of blood he had created, he found it lovely, red and shining as it was, and he painted his face, his body, his hair with the blood, until he was clothed in it.

Slowly, he walked through the pool, letting the fingers on one hand trail through the blood, leaving behind them eddies of shadow and darkness. And slowly this darkness grew, until the entirety of the pool was dark, and wondrous images appeared on the surface, of stars and nebulae, of terrifying storms in far off places, where a merciless rain of molten glass fell on a sea of lava. He saw wonderful creatures, dark and powerful, lurking in deeps of the earth, with sharp fangs and beautiful leathery wings, and his heart was full of happiness.

And then at last, the pool showed him that cave, and the crystal, and the fair being within it, the one that had captured his heart the day he first saw him, and Mairon’s heart soared with joy and a strange, dark ecstasy.

There was a sound behind him, and Mairon turned to look at its source. It was an elf, the one elf that still lived, curled up on himself and crying in the middle of a sea of death. Mairon couldn’t remember anymore why this one still lived when the others still lived, but he dimly, he knew it was good that he lived. He would have use of him.

The elf saw the figure in the blood, and cowered. Mairon smiled and stood out of the red water, and walked to him with a silvery laugh. And then he knew him.

“Come, my friend,” he said, holding out his blood soaked hand to his elf-friend. “Come to me.”

The elf tried to refuse, but Mairon smiled, and wove tendrils of power around him until the elf had no will to resist anymore, mesmerised by his golden eyes, and forgot everything apart from his love and longing for Mairon.

Mairon dragged him to the center of his pool, where the blood was deepest and the image clearest, and divested him of all clothes. And there, as they were both clothed in blood, he offered himself to the elf, and the elf was lost, and couldn’t refuse, because his love for Mairon had been great and his magic was too strong.

And Mairon laughed as the elf entered him, burning with need, as he rode him to pleasure, and just as the elf was reaching the throes of his climax, he thrust his hand into his chest, opening a deep wound. 

The lake of blood turned black, and it seemed to grow deep, drawing Mairon into its depths, and Mairon went gladly, falling into the night, holding the body of his elf-friend close to him.

After what could have been an instant but could also have been an eternity, the darkness lightened, and his feet fell lightly upon a stone floor. He was in that cave, in front of that crystal. And the being in the stone was more beautiful than he could have imagined, a crown upon on his kingly brow, and three lights shone upon it.

And as Mairon stood looking at the black crystal wrapped in chains, the body of his friend heavy and limp in his arms. and he knew what to do. Some hidden power, older than time, was calling to him, telling him how to use it, just as it had told him to make the pool of blood or how to call forth images from the surface of water.

With a sudden burst of power, he lifted the body of his friend by his throat until his back was against the stone, and he reached into wound he’d opened, tearing it wider and grabbed his still weakly beating heart, and tore it off, and crushed it against the stone.

The stone melted, dissolving into black wisps of smoke that drifted off, revealing a figure like night and death, beautiful and terrifying, dark and tall, his spirit a shining thing with sharp edges of obsidian darkness. Mairon’s heart swelled, and suddenly he knew his Lord, and savage joy filled him.

“My Lord,” he said, kneeling at Melkor’s feet. “I am back.”

“My love,” said Melkor, and extended his hand. “Welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> uminoarawashi at tumblr.com if you want to chat. I don’t post anything specific, but I’m very open to fic recs or random fandom related musings!


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